I Love the Sound of Breaking Glass
by waspinthelotus
Summary: Holmes/Watson SLASH. Holmes has been coked-out and locked in his room for days, and freaks Watson out by putting a pistol to his head. Watson tries to intervene but gets more than he bargained for. Perverse sex happens. Dubcon, gunplay, choking.
1. Sherlock, Don't Be Stupid

**Title:** _I Love the Sound of Breaking Glass_

**Summary: **Sherlock is having one of his drug-addled isolation bouts again, and this time he's holding a loaded pistol to his head. Watson tries to talk him out of it and gets more than he bargained for. Angry/violent sex and slut!Sherlock.****

**Rating: **NC-17 for some iffy consent and slashy sex. Dubious consent, gun play, choking, dirty talk, blowjobs and sex.****

**Pairings: **Sherlock Holmes/John Watson

**  
****Disclaimer: **Sir Arthur Conan Doyle created these characters with no intention of them being paired sexually. Welp, sorry. Also this fic is based heavily off of the 2009 film with portrayals by Jude Law and RDJ. I don't own anything, just writing dirty stories on the internet. Enjoy.

The view over Baker Street was quite catching.

Or, at least, would have been. If it weren't for the smog, and the dirt, and the cocaine powder drifting about in the detective's fuzzy little head. He had not left his room for six days—took tea for dinner, ingested all other nutrients via the convenience of his nose—and the charm of London fell weakly upon him like so many bits of ash. Instead, he lay his chin upon the sill, eyes widely involved in the scene below, absorbing the most fascinating details from the crowd…

Yes, Sherlock was locked away again, musing down upon the repressed Victorian masses with all the relish of a hungover voyeur: the overtight petticoats, the starched gray dress, men's canes carefully tapping dirt away from the heel of a polished shoe. And of course, every cane he saw reminded him of the one he recalled being clutched by a certain veteran doctor, a certain moustachioed blue-eyed devil who tickled the back of his mind, due to be swinging through that door any moment now, with that frequently-worn look of concern upon his features, oh Watson, oh innocent little Watson.

It was the drugs, drugs and the sheer black boredom of days of isolation that curled a wicked little knot in Holmes' belly, when that door swung open and Watson's sigh of exasperation changed the light in the room.

He did not turn. Holmes' finger played against the trigger of a pistol, which he held in a melodramatic angle to his temple, as his tired eyes perused the crowd below.

"Holmes," Watson's voice cracked. "What the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Nothing special," Sherlock replied with a vacant tilt of the head. "People do it all the time, Doctor Watson. Surely it should be nothing you haven't seen before."

Footsteps came up behind the detective. Watson was wearing his professional dress: Sherlock knew this because he could hear the finished tick of the heel upon the floorboards, smell the subtle parfume of a new tie; the clean smell of Watson, the sound of his clothes hitting the air.

The trigger was oiled and the metal cool, pucker-kissed against his brain. "I'm growing rather bored of this living thing." Holmes said matter-of-factly.

"You're acting a lunatic," Watson huffed, wrung hands that were encased in leather gloves. "What you need is a case."

"Case, case, case, all you can talk about is cases." Sherlock's wild head of hair bobbed, and he finally did turn, a graceful sort of switch from his perch on the windowsill, his body and head turning fully toward the doctor with large brown eyes looking on without hesitation. He was correct: the Doctor was indeed dressed in his professional best, looking sufficiently overdressed in that dusty and cluttered room, with scarf slung over shoulder, with pale, sad blue eyes looking back at him.

"Sherlock, please don't be stupid." The doctor's jaw set. He was beginning to get worried now, as Watson had a tendency to do, and his fingers shook just slightly in their gloves.

"Can you provide me with a reason otherwise?" Sherlock lifted his brows, adjusted the place that the muzzle held against his head.

"You're not done living, for one," Watson replied roughly. "That and if you go, who will pay your half of the rent?"

"Bloody clever one aren't you." Sherlock smirked.

"So, put the gun down before you blow your ear off."


	2. Do What I Tell You

Sherlock's steady hand lifted the gun, and he examined it with a far-away look in his heavy brown eyes. "Hm," He quipped, then turned the gun slowly towards his friend.

Watson eyed the barrel of the pistol warily. Fear twinkled in his eyes for just a moment, a moment the detective captured hungrily. Still stuck in a sort of daydreamy trance (as days of isolation will do), Sherlock reflected upon the control he currently held over the doctor; like this, he surely could have the situation any way he wanted. The young Watson had such a delectable bit of anxiousness about him, his heart flitting beneath those stifling layers like a pretty bird. Indeed, Watson was a pretty bird: male and lean though he was.

Sherlock allowed the moment to stretch into intensity. He saw sweat beginning to burn at the top of Watson's forehead. Then he said: "Do you like me?"

Letting go a lungful of air, likely out of annoyance, the doctor replied: "Holmes, I really think you're beginning to slip your sanity. How about a drink? A scotch and water maybe? You need to get out. Out of this room, out of that bloody window sill before you fall and break your spine…"

The 'click' of the gun being cocked shut Watson's mouth.

"You didn't answer my question, good friend," A lazy smirk crawled its way over Sherlock's features.

Watson looked at him, puzzled. "After all we've been through together, you're going to question my loyalty?"

"Loyalty…" Sherlock hissed. "Like a dog."

"Yes, like a dog, now put the fucking gun away!"

"Close the door." Sherlock interrupted.

Watson stiffened. "Why?"

"Because I want to discuss something important with you, my good man, so please, if you could be so kind: shut and lock the door." Sherlock lowered his brows and brought them up again, all the while keeping those dark eyes set on his partner, the gun raised and cocked and ready.

He watched Watson cautiously scale towards the door. He saw him shut and lock it. He watched him walk slowly back towards him, brow furrowed, confusion and annoyance on his features, and a little bit of hesitant fear too.

Silently he descended from the sill. Walked towards Watson, who stood uninformed but patient in the center of the room. "I'm doing an experiment." Sherlock said lowly, his steps deliberate and delicate, the gun still raised in one hand.

"And I suppose consent is not a requirement for participation as the guinea pig…"

Sherlock circled the man slowly, locked in an unbroken stare. "No, it is not. In fact, the experiment invariably performs better that way."

Watson's adam's apple bobbed. He lifted his neck warily as Sherlock came closer, the edge of the gun skimming close to his throat. "And what is your little experiment about?"

"Trust," Sherlock whispered.

"You don't feel that I trust you?"

"I've been locked in this room for six days," Sherlock snapped. "Now is not the time to be asking me stupid questions."

He watched the muzzle of the gun finally make contact with the naked white skin of Watson's throat. The man jerked nervously, gloved hands clenched, but kept his feet placed apart, back straight.

Sherlock put a knee between those legs, and then Watson's military training kicked in: an arm came down, the veteran's head ducking under, a whip of movement.

There was a scuffle, the sliding of feet. Watson's knuckles caught him in the lip, and he caught Watson against the wall, slamming his back into it hard, grabbing him by the collar by one hand. Then he put his knee back where he had intended it, rubbing intrusively between the thighs, and he put his face close to Watson's, and he breathed snakelike: "Stay still."

"What do you want?" Watson growled, blue eyes wide and piercing.

The hand that clenched Watson's collar into a wrinkled mess reached up and caught the fleshy curve of his chin. The gun pressed tightly into Watson's neck. "I want you to stop moving."

Heart racing, Watson turned his head to the side. "For god's sake, you could've paid a rent boy for this…"

"Shut up." The gun tilted, came up to Watson's cheek. He watched the bright blue eyes darting about unsurely. Then he pulled the gun back slowly, made some space between them, stood and said: "Get on your knees."

So the doctor did. Get on his knees, that is, on those perfect woven trousers that would surely need some sewing after this: he got on his knees with a tender delay and looked up with a sore, pouting redness in his face.


	3. Breaking Glass

Sherlock grabbed the superfluous heavy scarf swung across Watson's shoulder. _Clothes_. Clothes were certainly the problem here, but at the same time the fascination: the thick, rough fabrics of a masculine Victorian wardrobe: Sherlock felt the texture of the man's tie between his fingers before loosening it roughly, tossing the scarf, jerking open the lapels of the overcoat; only to see goosepimpled flesh, hot beneath his fingertips, chest rising and falling unsurely.

He kept the gun steady in the other hand. He reached down to undo the buttons on his trousers. His cock had stiffened since the scuffle and he showed it to Watson and watched his face as he averted his eyes.

Then he grabbed the man by the hair and forced him to look at it. Then he said: "Put it in your mouth or I'll shoot you."

As if caught up in some bizarre wicked air, the doctor on his knees blushed a heady crimson, and with the coquettish demeanor of a libertine let his mouth drop open so Sherlock could slip his cock into it. The pure sluttish way of it made Sherlock's head spin, and hips bounce forward, and Watson gagged but pushed until it hit the back of his throat.

There wasn't a particular curseword that Sherlock thought properly enunciated the sensation he felt, what with the man's mouth wrapped incredibly about his member with the surprising dexterity of a streetwhore, so he skipped through several while clutching the back of Watson's head and effectively fucking his face.

And these perverse, hot little sounds were coming out of Watson's throat. In fact, he was hitching. And not quite knowing what to do, his gloved hands reached up and grabbed at the fabric of Sherlock's trousers.

"Positively devilish…" The words dropped from Sherlock's mouth as he surveyed the wicked act, brushing a quiff of Watson's hair from his forehead with the mouth of the pistol.

Watson drew up, lay his tongue deftly against the underside of the other man's cock. A wet wanton darkness lay in his eyes, cheeks ruddy.

Sherlock was struck dumb by the vision. So he said: "Tell me, dear Watson, if I am correct in assuming you've done this before…"

The feiry burst upon the doctor's cheeks answered Sherlock's suspicions. So he slammed his hips forward and flattened Watson in to the wall. As he felt he was about to slip into animal fever, he pulled away. That's when Watson grabbed a hold of his wrist, the gun flying. It went off, shot a hole into the window, but the matronly woman of the house was absent this evening and the sound became obscured by the crash of their bodies on the floor. Watson pinned his wrists, straddling his waist, looking down upon him with a wild hot glow in his face. They gasped at one another for a moment longer. Watson began pulling at the edges of his coat, shrugging it off feverishly. The shirt became unbuttoned, the belt whipped away. One glove found its way between the clench of his teeth, where he pulled it away and revealed nimble white fingers; the other wrapped itself still-gloved around Sherlock's spit-slicked member.

Head rolling, teeth bared at the collision the floor had made with his head, Sherlock groaned: "…blasted gun…"

"Shut up, Holmes," Watson spat and reached down with his bare hand to pull at the waist of Sherlock's trousers. The man beneath him wiggled, eyes rolling in a stupor, his shirt laying half-open across his stomach, revealing a flat, heaving belly and an exposed pinkened hipbone, the furrow of hair that trailed down into his groin…

The pants came halfway down and the doctor immersed himself in staring at the pale and unclothed curve of Sherlock's buttock. Holmes grinned, threw his arms behind his head: "Make me shut up…" he demanded, so Watson obliged.

The doctor slammed his gloved hand across Holmes' face, bearing his hips down hard upon the man's groin. Sherlock moaned, breath puffing against the cold leather of the other man's palm. Watson busied himself in pulling the man's burning naked ass closer to him, until he had his own prick out and laying against the underside of Sherlock's body. In a needy mindless fever he pulled his hand away from Sherlocks mouth, only to allow him a few overwhelmed gasping sounds before he snatched up the detective's arched neck.

"Is this what you did… in the army, Watsie…. to all those horny little… lonesome soldier boys?" Holmes gasped out, glaring up at Watson, body a wiggling wanton mess. Watson squeezed harder, effectively silencing his partner and also cutting off his air supply. Holmes' eyes rolled, hips bucked.

"You're positively insatiable…" Watson said breathily, thoughtlessly.

Holmes' hands grabbed at Watson's waist, pulling him closer, his suppressed breath coming in hot little gasps. Overcome by mindless need Watson spit into his palm, reached between the tangle of limbs and slicked himself up, and pushed himself inside the other man. In unison they bucked and cried out.

He pulled his hand away from Sherlock's throat and looked at the two burning coals that were Sherlock Holmes' eyes: mouth hanging open, tongue curling in lascivious gestures at the edges of his teeth. "Fuck me…" Sherlock hissed, grabbed at the collar of Watson's shirt, pulling him down hard upon him.

Watson felt directionless, heady, floating and sadistic: he pressed Holmes into the floorboards and beat his body into it, the sounds of their flesh slamming through the noise of the street that had entered the room through broken glass. Blood rushed to his head, he heard Holmes' pathetic slutty gasps and pushed harder and deeper with an anger he had not known since the military; he pushed and growled until a bolt of lightning began cracking its way down his cock.

Then Holmes requested: "choke me, doctor…" and Watson choked him; clenched his hands around the detective's masculine neck and squeezed and moaned, and was right on top of him and cleaving his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, tasting spit and a little blood and sweat and sex. There was no other word fit for it: the doctor _ravanged_ him, and all the while Holmes nearly squealed, spoke filthy nonsense, shuddered involuntarily as the doctor squeezed the air from his lungs, pounded deep inside of him.

Suddenly Holmes was flipped onto his belly, face flattened on the floor, and Watson's hands ripped at his shirt, grabbed the sides of his hips and used them as leverage. Grabbing at the floorboards for support, Holmes gathered what sense of balance he had and drooled foolishly; then felt Watson's hand in a vicegrip in his wild bush of hair, yanking his head back.

"you… you ravaged them didn't you? Always coming back for more… you had your way, awkward fumblings in the barracks… you rode their throats…" Sherlock hissed, teased. He was rewarded with further tugging of his head, disorganized and violent thrusts through his body. He craved the abuse: his hands went beneath him to pleasure himself.

Watson was crazy with lust, too crazy with it to speak, and huffed and groaned until that lightning zig-zagged through his gut and he wrenched Sherlock's head back, arching his spine like an exquisite Chinese painting, and exploded across that bare arse in a fit of orgasmic passion. Sherlock, high as a kite, bit his lip boyishly, eyes squeezed shut and then… ah!… twitched around gluttonously in Watson's lap, coming erratically onto the floorboards.

For a while the room was accented by the twin sounds of their labored breathing, and the echo of the pedestrian traffic and horsecarts pouring from the bullet-sized hole in the window.

Watson weakly stood and collected a folded square of linen, began to wipe his hands surreptitiously.

"Watson," Sherlock whispered, still laying in complete complacent nakedness (his arse in the air, face sideways and resting on the floor).

Watson tasted the back of his tongue, before turning slowly to survey his friend, Detective Sherlock Holmes, splayed whorishly amongst discarded clothes and newspaper and come. The detective's blackish eyes met his with an eerie calmness. He swallowed. "Yes, Holmes?"

"I have an announcement…" Holmes murmured, lifting himself slowly into a sitting position, his bare chest exposed, moistened fingers running thoughtlessly across his belly. His eyes shut for a moment savoring the thrill of post-orgasm. "My experiment… was a brilliant success."

Watson glanced at the trail of broken glass across the floor, then back at his disheveled friend. "Was it?"

Sherlock grinned. "Yes. And I will be needing to interview you more intimately about your history with the military. But for now, I have an important request."

"Yes, Holmes?"

"A cup of tea. And a case."


End file.
